In the Library
by TheSupremeVigilance
Summary: A romance unfolds, beheld only by books and dust. Two great opposing forces collide. But can they remain? RATED M FOR PLANNED CHAPTERS. M/M.
1. Prologue

**I don't own Harry Potter. I don't own the characters. I don't own one single thing. It all belongs to the great JK in the sky.**

**Happy Reading.**

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><p>The library was not a quiet place. The hallowed motes of dust quaked under the imminent yaw of chatter. The tables were covered with notes and candy wrappers. Occasionally, a particularly vocal child would be thrown out, the stiff oaken doors slamming behind him...sonorously clanging "GOODBYE!" But on the most part, the roar continued its supine existence, permeating each shelf, each book, each ear...growing in magnitude, from a noise to a rumble. It gathered its heavy body and lumbered up and down the aisles, gnashing its teeth of gone-by decibels, moving in a mindless rage towards the end of the aisle, where a lone waif sat, eyes down on the paper, reaching for him-<p>

Scorpius Malfoy screamed.

The quill he had been writing with snapped between his white knuckles. IDIOTS! This is the library! Silence! He wanted to raise his wand and Avada Kedavra the entire lot of those cacophonous vultures into oblivion. Gone were the days of Madam Irma Pince, courtesan of silence, paragon of the natural stillness-no! Gone were the days of hallowed silence and religious study. Blasphemy! Sacrilege!

Irma Pince, the unnamed martyr of the Battle at Hogwarts, died, blood running in rivulets over the tome she had been reading. The Death-Eaters three, who had dared ingress upon the library, dared throw open the doors to the dimly-lit chapel, had died, mutilated by curses only the most introspective mind could have formed. But she died, nevertheless, and the silence with her.

Scorpius Malfoy rose from his chair with a bang and ignoring the casual and condescending glances, fired a silencing charm at the air in front of him. Those watching were saluted with a rude gesture and a glare that conveyed a pertinent hatred. The ambsace between study and play was ruled by stillness. The equilibrium. Pang's Eighth Concerto...calm. Scorpius collected himself, breathing deeply. Fingers massaging his temples, he took breaths in a calculated order. Focus. Stillness. Calm. Tranquility. One, two. One, two. Calm. He opened his eyes. The light was mellow, the shelves orderly. His mind empty, except for himself. Like a lone gondolier in an infinite sea.

Good.

Pulling a black-feathered quill from his capacious attaché case, flourishing it, and vaingloriously spinning it in the ink blotter, he began again. The trails of pure black ink flowed behind his hand. From conception, to cognizance, to creation, his ideas rode the parchment in a trail unfathomed. Ratiocination came from inspiration, and back again, a cyclic movement. All you had to do was ride it. The feather instilled in the parchment an idea, lending a shadow of sentience to the object. It was not aware of its gossamer cling on consciousness, impressed by a nib trickling black blood on its visage, but felt a movement deep inside its material form. Gnosis.

Good.

The air was still around him, musty, with a feeling of atavistic propriety. The light beamed in from charmed windows. Never too much, never too little. Enough to illuminate his parchment, but not overwhelm it. Scorpius admired the carefully placed rays of light...each, diffracting from solid impediment, then rejoining in carnal union, basking on his page. You could say Scorpius Malfoy was a lover of small things. But he would assure, quite tersely, and with a feather in his mouth, that that was not the case. His fingers would splay over the table like spiders, and he would lean in close. You would feel, perhaps, a wisp of bleach blond hair float to your face, and hover there. His grey eyes would penetrate your mind, boring through your fleshy face, past lips and tongue, and nose, and eyes, moving through the flesh to your mind, and surveying it with Nero's eyes. Perhaps he would even have a fiddle. Then, he would begin to speak.

Scorpius Malfoy did not LOVE things. He appreciated them, yes. He valued them, indeed. He saw their unwavering worth, their intransient presence, their inherency...yes. But he did not love them. To love...is to be without condition. To love is to throw contingency to abandon. Scorpius Malfoy slept upon contingency. So, ipso facto, Scorpius Malfoy did not _love_. To _love_ was to abandon practice, and improvise with presence. _To love _was for the naifs and nymphets, satyrs, and fertile things.

And, gathering the shadows around him, drooping his head, and refocusing his eyes, Scorpius Malfoy would begin to study. Not for the love of the thing, but the necessity.

* * *

><p>Albus Severus Potter, possibly the worst named child in the history of ludicrousness, was enjoying himself. The library was loud, euphoric, the benign chatter stimulated him, invigorated him. Albus Potter reveled in chaos, it was his element. Such is Earth and Fire, Water and Air, compatible without dialectic, he was too, with disorder.<p>

Hair arranged in a fey crown, Albus Potter, stood, one leg on the table, and declaimed regally, "My fellow Gryffindors..." with intonation so congruent to that of the headmaster, one could think it uncanny, "you know, most of all, why you have been called here. Called here, to this literary haven, where neutral grounds are linked. You know why...why we must meet here,_ fellow Gryffindors_, and not in the Common Room! _Why?_ Why, you may ask? We meet here, _fellow Gryffindors_, because we are not _afraid_. **We are not afraid!**"

There was a flourishing of giggles.

"We are not afraid,_ because we are brave_! _The snake slithers, the badger hides, the raven finds solace in its nest!_ But we, _the lion, the lion does not run_! **Preposterous!** The lion _roars_, on savanna or rooftop,_ wherever._"

A flutter of faces, looking at him in question. Sylvanshine, from his branches. Strength. His heart beat against his chest. LOOK AT ME! LISTEN!

"We are not afraid of the _snake_! It makes to bite, **but it has not teeth! The lion has! **And _so do we_."

Scattered cheers.

"We scorn the badger! Its very turpitude, to approach us, makes us_ laugh_! _The raven_! The raven may _steal_ our cubs, but we shall **steel** them first! The raven cannot take what it cannot carry! And so, with all the houses,** crippled**, at their bloodied knees, we Gryffindors,_ we shall take the day_. The cup, last year, the year before, it was _taken_ from us. Not missed, not a grazing of fingers on what _could have been_. It was taken. Taken through _injustice_. Taken through our _weakness_. Taken through our _pride_."

His voice layered with intensity, necessity, began to perforate the consciousness of his fellow Gryffindors. His words were spoken with true rhetorical flair, and his every movement was placed. Green eyes wide, hands clenched, legs supporting upwards from the table, he was a pillar.

"We shall,_ fellow Gryffindors_, rule once more! Rule this _castle_, rule this_ school_ and **rule this game**! Quidditch is _ours_! Godric Gryffindor fights in the light! **And his opponents shall rue the day they challenged him in sport!**"

Applause, polite, and vigorous. A few whistles, provocative, yet necessary. Morale is half the game. Albus looked down quietly, feeling the growing anticipation. He basked in it. Symmetry, that was his face, beauty was his mantle. Red hair mussed in a sweat-tinged halo, he screamed "**THE GAME IS OURS!**"

A moment. A lacuna. His heart beat once, his eyes blinked, white covering emerald green, his smile widened, white teeth, pink tongue. Then he heard.

Cheers, an eruption. Fiery, and glorious. He stepped back, singed.

His heart beat faster. He stepped down from the table, victorious. Leaning over to speak.

"Thanks, Rose." He said quietly.

A shock of red hair acquiesced. "You're welcome."

* * *

><p>The noise permeated his hastily-cast silencing charm. Snapping another quill, Scorpius Malfoy saw red. Gold and red, moving concentrically around a centrifugal point, a Apollonian figure, stretching out its arms, charisma radiating from every pore. Albus Potter.<p>

Hate.

Pure, unmitigated, raw.

Consuming.

Hate.

Scorpius Malfoy watched with unfocused eyes, as Albus Potter stepped down from the table, meeting his myrmidons, moving through the sea of cheers. His eyes passed over each of them in a loving caress, moving from face to face, eyes glowing, hands splayed, meeting slick, candied palms.

Black, turbulent, maelstrom.

His hair was plastered to his forehead. Red, lustrous locks that contrasted blasphemously with the black of the school garb. Red and gold tie flung away in masculine abandon. Unfettered youth, Ganymede, stood upon the library floor, radiance.

Unconquerable, terrible, umrbous.

Scorpius hated Albus Potter.

Scorpius hated Albus Potter more than anything else in the world.

Albus Potter was a demigod, one of virility, and happiness. One who cast the rigid propriety of etiquette to the winds. He feared nothing. No one. Not death. Death? Death come to Albus Potter?

Scorpius stifled a growl.

The two were antipodal.

Scorpius's hand slowly reached to his wand, fingering the long ebony handle. He swished it in a practiced arc, casting a restricted charm on his corner. A haze emanated from the tip, passing through the silencing charm, and gently encompassing his table. Like a globe, it settled over Scorpius, leaving him in darkness.

To think. To breathe.

He hated Albus Potter.

Pure, black, turbulent, maelstrom.

Unconquerable, terrible, umbrous.

More than anything in the world.

_Why?_

Because he loved.

* * *

><p>The library was dark. The windows dark. The floor covered in shadow. The dread noisy spirit sat in a recess and died. The books regained their structure. The dust alighted again on their ancient forms. There was a great languor. A stretching.<p>

It was night.

And the darkness was welcome.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for taking time to read my fumid mess.<strong>


	2. Shadows and Gates: Scorpius

**A/N AS ALWAYS, I DON'T BELIEVE IN OWNERSHIP. TO IMPLY AS MUCH MAY INSULT MY BELIEFS. THIS ALL BELONGS, ALL THIS SIN, TO THE GREAT JK IN THE SKY. SHE'S THE ONE WITH THE LAWYERS.**

Enjoy!

**PS: I APPRECIATE _ALL _REVIEWS. I ACCEPT BOTH ANONYMOUS AND MEMBER REVIEWS, FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH.**

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><p><strong>THE PRESENT:<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>"RESTRICTED SECTION"<strong> declaimed the sign, a black-on gold embossing.

With solemn decoration, it adorned the gate of corrugated metal, barring the maw of its eponymous denizen to new prey. Standing there, it seemed very final. The books in that nether corner were dusty, years turning by when they would chance to see a new face. Their yellowed corners turned with the years, as did the immediate area: the previously brilliant shades turning to an antiquitarian sepia; dusk in a corner of morning. The light dropped dramatically, he noted, looking behind him. Born of a central ward, it moved onward, gently revealing crested motifs, illuminating diaphanous folds in a robe, spilling across faces, lips, hair, intertwined. Teeth sparkled, and eyes blinked coyishly. Hands played over books, and laughs lilted in its gaze. However, as the library continued, beauty lost its hold and the light found scarce to illumine. Darkened corners sprang forward, titles gently faded. An obscurity eventualized, until identity had lost its meaning. Back here, there were secrets, lost, and hidden. Back here, you could forget who you were.

Where Scorpius stood, it was nearly dark.

Gazing into the RESTRICTED SECTIOON, he watched his soul flutter to and fro. The RESTRICTED SECTION was nearly pitch black, an ominous sigh folding from it, pushing back his hair.

Ever since Madame Pince had left, the Restricted Section had fallen into disrepair. Its arcana remained untouched, unseen. Professors used to call books from its recesses, eyes gleaning information that students could not dream of. However, as the years turned by, and the Professors left, the RESTRICTED SECTION had become forgotten. The pillars of the school, crumpling, words blurring over their eyes. Lips parted, the knowledge left the halls. And now, the dusty air pushed against his face from an antique land.

Hands stroking rivets, he noted the buzz of wards. They were weak, and as all untended wards do, they assimilated to the nature on which they were bound. The darkness shuddered. A palpable presence moved through him.

Pulling back from the gate, he took hold of his wand and with a flick, tested the charms. Feeling them over, eyes closed, he nodded to himself. Yes, they were weakened, and they would most likely break soon. He looked at the shelves holding the gate, testing them, passing through the gathered books to the surface of the burnished wood. Sending his aetheric consciousness through the wood was simple. There were no wards on these.

Eyes opening, he considered the situation. Past this portal lay vast fathoms of knowledge of that he would otherwise never see. The section was never visited, and if it was, for a scant minute to pluck the same book, over and over again. Those who knew not of, could not make rules for.

The night held by the gate pulsed.

It was waiting.

Looking over his shoulder, only conscious now of the blinding noise.

There were no friends for him there.

Turning back, cloak billowing in the tradition of a curtain opening, let the show begin...

"Perforatus Impedira."

The gate crumbled around the center, outwards-reaching disease, pulling at the metal, dissolving under its own weight. The dust spiraled down to the floor, from ashes to ashes, it coalesced into a pile of subdivisionary rudiments. As each bar snapped, the wards activated, reforming the gate. The life-cycle of the never-born. He cast the spell again, this time with greater inflection.

"Perforatus Impedira!"

Its reverberation pushed at the bonds of the steel, cracking the metal beneath the shock. The unholy glimmer of magic streamed from each of its bars, illuminating his face. There was a sound like the dying breath of an opium eater, and the gate crumbled, spreading across the floor.

Pushing back his hair, and his wand forward, he entered the abyss.

"Lumos."

The gate forming behind him, wings spreading, phoenix rising.

* * *

><p>The RESTRICTED SECTION, after being neglected for so long, had a feral nature. The books were moving restlessly, and the lone window towards the back was choked with lichen and leafy things. Birds nested in the far reaches of the pane, gazing impertinently towards him. The darkness abated a bit the further you went, and a shape that remained- an obfuscated abstraction- became a table. Long clawed legs gripping the floor. It sat with ponderous ostentation. The black wood was wet with condensation. Running down the supports, pooling at its feet. Caryatids supported the shelves, eyes cast downward, mawkish faces cast in cowls.<p>

Lumos barely penetrating the infinity before him, Scorpius realized that what he had previously regarded as an end to the library, an addendum, was actually the beginning. Monolith after monolith fell to his pale light as he processed in ritualistic respect.

_A censer in his hand, swinging back and forth, pale steel glinting in the light, refracting on the shelves. Illuminating titles and figures, the renegade beams are dissipiated by the choking blackness. His face clouded, arms trembling. The censer dropped, rolling down the aisle, ashes loosed from its confining orb. Scorpius raises a hand, beckoning out to it, feeling along the ground, crushed incense moving between his fingers. A finger touching his face, tracing down his jaw..._

Scorpius realized he was standing still. His eyes unfocused, mouth partly open, and fingers loose about the wand...he was a part of the library. A paralyzed Hellenic, his light began to flicker. The shadows circled closer.

_A censer in his hand, swinging back and forth, pale steel glinting in the light-_

No.

Resurfacing, he walked faster.

Remember why he was here.

"..." _Steps over steps, swift, sempiternal steps- _Surely the section could not be this long? Scorpius felt winded.

This place was not what it seemed.

Finally reaching the table, breath coming quicker than normal, he sat down. Weary hands ran through his hair. Taking in the sight, lumos waning, he inhaled in the moment.

A seperate plane, that's where he was. One that had never seen the Second Wizarding War, where the fingers skirting over the pages were the sole intermediary between sign and signifier. He was anonymous. The place had an air of _want_, as if it had great things to speak of. Of nebulous fixations, and labyrinthine corners. The pale glow of an outside mind, it beckoned to him.

_"They don't understand. We can teach you. We taught _Him_."_

_"I don't want to be like _Him_."_

_Laughter._

_"Then don't. We can teach you to be anything-good or evil. Strong or weak. We can teach you-to create-or destroy."_

_"I want to learn."_

_"Then go. Knock and the door will be opened. Ask, and you shall receive. Light, and you shall be burned. Breathe, and you shall taste. _Read_, and you shall live."_

* * *

><p><strong>A FEW DAYS PAST:<strong>

* * *

><p>The cloaks swirled behind him, tracing over the vaguely rough floor. His head was set forward, ignoring the footsteps behind, moving faster every second. He knew, when he looked over his shoulder, that they didn't have faces. Darkness pooled underneath hoods, and not a feature could be spotted. Occasionally, a hair might stray from the enchantment, and its lone existence, emanating from the abyss contained, would chill him. There were shadows behind him. He mustn't stop.<p>

Turning quickly between two walls of books, he dropped his bag, and grabbed for his wand. The shadows met him there. There were four. Each had their wand drawn, oak, hickory, rowan, elm, each extending from the curled fingers of an obscured hand. Their cloaks billowed behind them. The enchantment gave off pressure.

Scorpius raised his wand hand, stretching out before his body. His eyes hardened, and his face grew impassive. A stillness overtook his features, each calming into stasis.

"Go."

The shadows moved between each other, threading in and out, circumventing his curses, and occasionally repelling them. A few flew towards his own frame, and he repelled them, disintegrating the bulbs of blue and white light. A silence smothered the scene, straddling the occasional curse. Scorpius didn't need to say anything. Blue, white, red, purple, each burst from his wand. The foremost shadow took a hit. Its cloak turning back, spreading out, like wings. A heartbeat, and it burst into flight, rushing away from the scene.

A splinter, as it hit the table, upper torso lurching forward. A nose briefly exited the shadow, and then fell back. Prone, on the floor.

The three remaining had had enough, ghosting forwards, repelling curses. He couldn't hit all of them. The one on the left sprang, and his wand clattered to the floor. It was kicked, and sent rolling. The shadows convened overhead.

"Silencing charm, she'll never hear a thing."

A fist curled back from his body, and Scorpius shuddered. He squeezed his eyes shut.

It didn't feel so bad when you couldn't see.

Impact, rolling pain across his chest, something snapped, became pliant. Another blow, shattering the ribs. They continued, each connecting, imparting, and delivering a message. "Malfoy. Traitor. Fag. Marked. Death. Eater." The blows cumulated, increasing; blood was felt somewhere on his body. Crimson streaks falling from pale white paper-thin. He could taste blood on his teeth. The tongue pressed against his mouth. Flecks. Impact. Whimpering, his mouth moved restlessly. Blood, drops on the floor. They continued, his face moving in pain. The shadows struck, arms flying.

Impact. Release, clench. Impact.

Something fluttered outside his mind. Darkness. Peripherally, it waited. Black, shapeless. It waited for the end.

He hissed, a kick smashing his hip. Cracking, and suddenly ductile. It is a terrify thing when your body becomes independent of your will. It is like being lost inside an automaton.

A vertical collapse, following single vector, down. His knees gave out, losing their resolve. An illimitable surface rose to meet him, upwards, spanning in all directions. The darkness came closer. Feathers billowing as it encircled his awareness. Black raven, rivulets, down his hands. The infinite solid made contact, his nose, splintering, red, red, repulsed by tide from its origin. Spreading over the floor.

The shadows pulled back.

A kick, from a dark boot, massaged his groin. He gasped.

They left, pulling wands and dissipating the enchantment. With a flutter of darkened robes, they were gone.

Alone.

There was a shifting in the corner. Feathers fell down into his hair, eyes looking up sightlessly.

Darkness, talons spreading over his face. "Malfoy."

"Yes?"

A beak, an eye. Wings wrapped around his beaten body.

"Sleep."

* * *

><p><em>Walls rose up around him. Grey and ponderous, they enclosed him. He felt his hands move across the floor. He was lying supine, supine in the darkness. He knew the walls were grey, stone, relic. He knew the walls would ring hollowly minutes after he screamed. He knew that the dust coating the floor would have spiders with more than eight legs and heads full of eyes. He knew this place. It was home.<em>

_"Scorpius."_

_The Grandfather ticked, bending over him. He felt the Grandfather's hair fall over his face, blond tresses full of dirt. He tried to clear them from his face, but he couldn't move. Paralyzed, he felt the grandfather carress his face._

_"Scorpius."_

_He trembled. The Grandfather's hands were dirty, dust and lint caking the cuticles and the creases. It traced an arc across his cheek._

_"Scorpius, we love you."_

_The Grandfather's voice was raspy and dead. He felt the flakes of blood coming from the Grandfather's mouth alight on his face. The hands moved down to his neck. Pulling at the white flesh. The Grandfather was tall, so he must be bending over, or kneeling. His cloak must be lying flaccid around him, in the dust, pulling on the rough stones. He must have his hands outstretched, for no more of the Grandfather could be felt. They plucked at his throat._

_"We love you."_

_He swallowed, and the Grandfather's hands tightened. Scorpius could feel breath, like decanted wind, stroke his face. It smelled like a coffin. The Grandfather rose, and he could hear him moving away. The dust and the lint and the dirt were swirling around him._

_"We love you."_

_He panicked, fingers digging into the ground. Screaming._

_"Grandfather, don't leave!"_

_The ground gave way, and he could feel himself falling. Pale, soft, hands, pulling him further. Grabbing at his hair, his face. They burrowed into his mouth, scraping on his teeth. They grabbed his arms, and hands. They pulled at his tongue. Further, they felt at his throat. He tried to scream, and choked. Biting down, the fingers grew bloodied._

_"We love you."_

_Blood in his mouth. Choking on fingers. Drowning._

* * *

><p><strong>INTERMEZZO: A REQUIEM FOR THE LIVING<strong>

* * *

><p>The books watched solemnly as he was carried from the library. Levitated, his body passed the monolithic shelves in a procession. Eyes closed, hair matted with blood, he hovered, at about one and a half meters, cloak dragging against the floor. The rain pounded against the windows, sleeking the room with a grey light. The stained glass wept, keening, waving hands limply.<p>

The Professor walked, face stony, to the front of the library. Long green cloak trailing from her, sliding over tiles, correcting its motion, like a snake. Her shoulder-length grey hair billowed against her face, which was rigid, composed of lines, a rough sketch of a beautiful person that never was. Thin spectacles sat over her eyes. Disembodied quadrilaterals, they flashed in tandem with the lightning.

Someone had been abused, beaten, nearly destroyed.

That person also happened to belong to her house.

As Argus Filch led the floating boy out the doors, she stopped in front of the desk.

She glanced at it coolly. Behind sat Madame Maureen, the _librarian._ Eyes rheumy and tired, they gazed from behind two lenses, each held in front of the eye by a levitating charm. Her every movement, every breath declaimed defeat. She, living her life as a reliquary, was condemned to the tepid and valedictorian. She was a post-script, an exegesis, an afterthought. Cobwebs fluttered from her cheeks. Her hands were deadly white against the void-filled it and chair, each black as night , enveloping her figure, pushing against her, containing the corpse like a coffin. Frills covered every inch of her robes. Her mouth opened and spoke with rustling leaves and acorns.

"I-I didn't realize what was happening to the boy."

Professor Sinistra's mouth hardened.

"Obviously you _didn't_, Mary, if you did you would have no doubt _intervened_."

The Madame swallowed. Veins tracing every sussuration of skin, folding beneath her chin, down, down, vanishing into frills.

Two pairs of lenses regarded one another.

"I assumed my position as the Slytherin's Head, Mary, and, as I see that Slytherin has weathered conflict, yes, and contention lately, I will thank you to be _extra_ vigilant when it comes to my students. _Especially _Young Mr. Malfoy."

There was a silence.

The corpse's arm was blown from her coffin, pointing. The veins contracted, pushing it outwards.

"Surely, Aurora, you don't-you don't think it was _intentional? _And even-even if it was-"

Sinistras face was alit.

"-w-who could blame them?"

Hellfire. Inferno. The lid of the coffin blew back, crackling under the heat. The room glowed with infernal light and Sinistra raised a fiery face.

"**Mary**. I will forget what you just said. I will forget because of our years of _friendship_. I will erase that **filth** from my mind, expunge it for as much _my_ sake as **your's**. It will be in a pensieve before the day is done. However, _Mary_, if I ever find that one of _my students_, most especially **Mr. Malfoy, has weathered an attack inside this library**-then, Mary, then we will have to see whether you really are with me-"

She turned, flames licking at her robe.

"Or _**against**_ me."

The doors slammed, ringing their farewell throughout the arched room. Dust settled, and Hogwarts was still.

Her parting words, however, lingered. Sitting on the library floor, they regarded the room blearily, only moments before having come into the world.

**"**_For to be against my __**students**__, Mary, is to be against __**me**__."_

* * *

><p>Scorpius Malfoy was lying on a bed. The sheets clumped sweatily to his body, stikcing to his limbs. The blood was cleaned off, he could tell, and it no longer clung to his face. His eyes were unfocused, and he was in pain. The pain coursed up and down his body, through his limbs, and in his head. He looked more statuesque than alive.<p>

Looking straight down at the bed, grey eyes wide and sightless. Arranged on the white sheets, his limbs were heavy and spread. His long hair was stretched in every direction, a brillinat fan. Staring at the ceiling. As he coughed, a tiny rivulet of blood made its way from his mouth.

_The ceiling concaved as he watched it, moving in an upwards lift, lights following, leaving him in darkness._

_**SHADOWS MOVING, PULLING BACK, CLENCHING, IMPACT**_

_Pulling back, he felt hands on his back. Someone whispering at him. His eyes were tired, and he could not see._

_**SOMEONE WHISPERING, PULLING BACK, WE LOVE YOU**_

_He was crying, but without noise, tears running down his face. The shadows. But the hands were firm and gentle, carefully enclosing his hand around a long cylinder. His wand._

_**FINGERS FIGHTING AT HIS TEETH, PULLING, PRISING**_

_He blinked, fighting nausea. The vision cleared, and he looked into his savior's face._

_**DIRTY BLOND TRESSES, TICKING, DARKNESS**_

_"Professor Sinistra, I promise, I found him like this."_

_**DARKNESS, SHADOWS, IMPACT, PULLING, FEATHERS**_

_Albus Potter._

_**UNMITIGATED, TERRIBLE, UMBROUS**_

_The ceiling shuddered again, and the bookshelves encircled him, darkness moving in._

_**BEAK, EYE, HANDS, TERRIBLE HATERED**_

_Albus Potter._

Scorpius lay in bed, motionless.

_**ALBUS POTTER.**_

**NO!**

Hands clenching the sheets, eyes staring wide...

This would not happen again. He swore it on his soul.

_This would not happen again._

* * *

><p><strong>THE PRESENT:<strong>

* * *

><p>The book spoke of terrible things. It spoke of death and pain and rebirth. It spoke of dark magics that would tear children from their mother's skirts, dashing them into hell. It spoke of binding angels and blood as bonds. It spoke of revenge and retribution. There were spells-spells he could barely read of. Darkness, nebulous, unbroken.<p>

He looked at the book in disgust. This was too much.

_"But the shadows, Scorpius..."_

His eyes watering, he nodded his head. He promised himself that it wouldn't happen again. He promised not to be taken.

And he didn't need Potter.

That least of all.


End file.
